


so, look after me.

by cricketcheesecake



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: (some):, Angst with a Happy Ending, At some point Aberama will come up im sure, Bisexual Michael Gray, Gay Bonnie Gold, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Michael is injured so he gets stuck with the Gold group, Minor Original Character(s), Past Child Abuse, Period-Typical Homophobia, Swearing, i just really love mist and lakes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2019-06-27 06:14:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15679647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cricketcheesecake/pseuds/cricketcheesecake
Summary: A little exploration into the development of Bonnie and Michael's relationship during (and possibly after) Michael's time in the Gold's camp. Focuses on Bonnie's internal thoughts, as well as his character background and past experiences.





	so, look after me.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everyone! I hope you like this; it can be read as a oneshot, but I have a couple more chapters ready to go if people seem interested in the idea. 
> 
> NOTE: The term Gypsy is broadly considered a very sensitive word, and therefore should only be used in the real world by Romani people. Any usages of this word in a negative context by Michael are not condoned by me, and are indicative of the time frame and the characters saying it. Thank you! 
> 
> Words to reference (either direct Romanian, or cited as Romani slang during this time period):
> 
> întâlnire = rendezvous point
> 
> Devel = God
> 
> vardo = wagon / coverd vehicle used by British Romani as living quarters during this period
> 
> didicoi = Romani living outside Romani tribes and of mixed blood

Bonnie fancied him. 

It was a cold fact, settling heavy and congealed in the pit of his gullet. Michael had come to the camp by invitation and necessity, in polished brogue shoes and wearing a disgusted expression. His hair had been too fucking slicked and laid for someone shot through like Swiss cheese just a week or two prior. 

The way he’d looked at Bonnie at the _întâlnire_ said, _you and your people aren’t worthy to lick the soles of my shoes._

So, Bonnie had shot him a look that said, _I wouldn’t lick the soles of your shoes even if your life depended on it._

Bonnie knew how to fight, in more ways than one. Bonnie also knew how to lose, but by _Deve_ l, he would not let some toff like Michael Gray beat him in anything. 

Michael was like a wet blanket at the camp. That is, he was useless, annoying and just got in the way of everything. He’d clung to his posh outfit initially, but eventually he’d had to make sacrifices.

“Give me one of your spare shoes,” he’d snapped at Bonnie on the second night, huddling close to the fire as twilight overtook the camp. The temperatures dropped down to below freezing almost as soon as the sun fell, and leather brogues clearly weren’t working. 

Bonnie, who had been lounging on the back of one of the _vardos_ and minding his business, just snorted. He’d glanced over at the Shelby boy. “And I’m supposed to just give them to you, innit?”

“My mother told you lot to look after me,” Michael had said, sticking his chin out and glaring at Bonnie through the haze of mist rolling off the nearby lake. “So, look after me.”

Hearing that was somewhat akin to swallowing a rock. _So, look after me._

Teeth grinding, Bonnie had walked over to his _vardo_ and grubbed around till he found an old pair of work boots Esmerelda’d gotten him for his 17th birthday. He’d stuffed a pair of wool socks in as well, trying not to think about the why of it.

He’d thrown them at Michael, hard, and got some solace in the grunt of pain as it connected with Michael’s sore shoulder. 

“Gypsy bastard,” Michael had spat, but tugged the socks and shoes on nonetheless. 

_If I'm a Gypsy bastard, then so are you,_ Bonnie thought. But he just kept silent, climbing back up on the wagon, repeating in his head: _So, look after me._

That was where it had begun. The liking. The denying that he liked him.

Well, maybe _like_ was not the right word. Michael was, objectively, not fun to be around. He was a dour sort, which was disconcerting because Michael was barely a year older than Bonnie was. It was as though he looked 21 but acted like a 40-year-old accountant with achy bones. 

No, Bonnie didn’t really _like_ him. But he fancied him, nonetheless.

Now, Bonnie found himself squatting down, trying to start the campfire in the early morning light. Damp was clinging to the wool of his coat, and frost was seeping into his boots and making the joints of his fingers ache as he tried to light the kindling.

Through the clouds of his breath, he watched for Michael to exit his wagon. Or, rather, Bonnie’s cousin Vano’s wagon. Vano was unhappily spending his nights with his aunt, while some Gypsy-hating _didicoi_ slept in his bed.

An invasive image flashed into Bonnie’s mind, of Michael gazing into last night’s fire and slowly closing his eyes, letting the heat seep into his skin as the light danced across his strong cheekbones.

Bonnie snapped the stick he was holding. 

About ten minutes later, Michael opened the wagon door and stepped down onto the crisp grass, gingerly. Bonnie, out of the corner of his eye, saw him pause when he caught sight of Bonnie. He recovered quickly, though, straightening his jacket and confidently limping over to the fire. 

There were a few people up by now, milling about their wagons and tending to chores. Bonnie had finished his at daybreak, after exercising, so now he was left to poke awkwardly at the fire as Michael sat on the log adjacent to his, checking his pocket watch every five minutes.

Finally, Bonnie picked out a twig and threw it at Michael. Michael stiffened and swung his head at Bonnie, face deadpan. 

He pointed to Michael’s watch. “Why do you keep looking at that?”

Michael’s expression didn’t change. “So I can know what time it is.” 

“So, you check your watch and it says 6, right,” Bonnie said, indicating the number with his fingers, “And you wait 5 minutes, well then, it’ll be 6:05, won’t it. Don’t need a watch for that.”

Michael said nothing, so Bonnie continued. “And what do you need to know the fucking time for? It’s early morning, that’s all you need to know here.”

Again, Michael was silent for a long moment. He had gone to staring at his boots—Bonnie’s boots—before he looked up again. For the first time since he’d been here, his mouth twitched upwards. “Perhaps I’m timing how long it takes for you to build a decent fire.”

And there it was. An olive branch, flimsy as it was.

Bonnie huffed. “Fuck you. You’d not do any better.”

“Useless welterweight,” was all that Michael said in return, stretching his legs out dangerously close to the fire.

They fell into silence, but it was more comfortable than the other silences they’d weathered the previous couple days. For some reason, it felt more dangerous to watch Michael now, after they’d gone and had a slightly civil conversation. 

Growing up, it had always been easier to fancy random traveling men rather than boys he had to interact with on a daily basis. After a while, he would become a little too transparent, look at them a little too long. They’d try to beat him up, or, worse, they’d try to tell his father. 

They were never able to tell his father. He made sure he won those fights, even though it was painful. The last thing he ever wanted to do to those boys was beat them to pulps—

“Habit.”

Bonnie looked up from the fire. “What?”

“You asked me why I kept looking at my watch,” Michael said, his tone bored but his mouth set into a grim line as he watched the flames. “Earlier. Didn’t you?”

“O—Oh, yeah. I did ask that, earlier.” Bonnie poked at the embers, his mouth twitching into a smile. “I just assumed it was. It usually is, with you toffs. Habit.”

“Then why did you ask, if you knew the answer?” 

Bonnie shrugged. “Don’t like silence.”

“No,” said Michael, smirking as he looked out across the lake, “I don’t suppose you do. Boxing matches always give me a headache, there’s so much noise.”

“But wasn’t it loud in Small Heath, growing up? All the booking going on?”

“Didn’t grow up there.”

“Ah.”

Bonnie didn’t really know what to say to that, and he glanced over to see what form Michael was in. He didn’t really expect Michael to be looking at him, but he was. Intently. With that firm line of his mouth and that serious, furrowed-brow expression.

“Do you have ambition, Bonnie?” Michael asked. Blurted it out, really. He looked shocked for a moment, as though he hadn’t meant for the words to come out. 

Bonnie couldn’t help but cock his head to the side. “Fuck yes.”

“Yeah,” Michael said, carefully stretching out his wounded side. “Me too.”

* * *

Bonnie liked him.

It was better for everyone involved when Bonnie had just fancied Michael Gray, but now he actively tried to seek out his company. Which he really shouldn’t.

_Networking_ , he rationalized. Making connections with the Shelbys wherever he could get, so they would be less inclined to toss him for a better welterweight. 

But the bitter, bilious truth of it all was this: that rationalization had only dawned on him far after he’d taken a shine to Michael. An excuse, was what it was. A weak one. 

_Arrogant. Entitled. Demanding._ There was something so insolent in Michael’s demands. He talked in that low and commanding tone, as though he were both extremely careless and exceedingly careful in everything he said.

_ So, look after me.  _

The camaraderie came slowly, over the next two days. Michael got up around when Bonnie did now, which was two hours earlier than he used to. He’d recline against some tree and flip through a musty book he’d dug up from one of the wagons, offering occasional criticisms on Bonnie’s form as though he knew a damn thing about the sport. 

He acted less like a middle-aged accountant when they were together, more youthful, and it gradually dawned on Bonnie that Michael hadn’t acted his age in a long while. 

Michael sat by him at dinner, now, too. If Michael had been a girl, and if Bonnie had been normal, Bonnie would be inclined to tease, maybe steal some food off of Michael’s plate. But Michael was not a girl, so Bonnie kept his hands to himself. 

Bonnie felt like he was balancing on a fence, and he had a pretty good idea of what’d happen if he toppled over. 

“Keep your back more straight,” Michael commented from his spot on the bank, as Bonnie practiced dodging and maneuvering. 

The sun shimmered at the edge of the lake, barely risen and doing little to stave off chill. Bonnie had gotten covered in sweat despite the cold, so he’d ended up taking off his shirt and chucking it somewhere near Michael’s feet.

“Keep your comments to yourself,” Bonnie offered back. 

“Fine, don’t listen to my advice. Fucking idiot, you’ll get your spine bent like a piece of wire.”

“You know fuck all about boxing,” Bonnie said, pausing to face Michael and his musty book. 

“So?”  


Bonnie blinked. “So. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I always know what I’m talking about.”

_Arrogant. Entitled. Demanding,_ Bonnie repeated in his mind, watching Michael surreptitiously sniff the book pages. Michael was wearing a thicker overcoat now—one of Bonnie’s—and a pair of tattered work slacks Vano had coughed up for him. His hair had long since lost the slick, gelled look; now, it was soft and a little bit dull, like how normal hair looked. Bonnie imagined that it would smell like fire smoke and river water, mixed with that spicy cologne that rolled off him in waves. 

Too late, he realized he’d been staring too long. Michael had caught him, and now his blue eyes were staring directly into Bonnie’s startled ones.

Bonnie took a deep breath and kept practicing, even though he could practically feel blood rushing to his cheeks, neck, and chest. Hopefully, Michael would assume it was part of the exertion, but Bonnie wasn’t one to hope on things with terrible odds

“Bonnie Gold.”

Bonnie paused, looking out of the corner of his eye to Michael. He’d stood up, book placed carefully on a patch of dry rock, and now he was standing with Bonnie’s shirt wadded up in his left hand.

Walking slowly, because of his leg—surely because of his leg?—Michael came within a foot of Bonnie, who was standing stiff with racing thoughts. 

_ What is he thinking? What is he doing? What will he do? Why is he holding my shirt like that?  _

Michael’s eyes flicked up, head tilted to the side with the expression of a back alley fighter about to knife someone in the stomach. 

_He’s going to hit me,_ Bonnie thought. _And I’ll hit him back._

But Michael didn’t hit him. Instead, he just pressed the damp shirt into Bonnie’s chest and said, softly, “Useless welterweight.”

* * *

The next morning, Bonnie crept down to the lake bank, the bags under his eyes almost dragging him down the ground.

How the hell was he supposed to get any sleep when Michael went and did something like that? Bonnie had never felt more precarious than he had yesterday, after that moment with the shirt, and the insult that didn't really feel like an insult at all. 

That night, at dinner, Michael had still sat next to him. Not any closer, but with such an overwhelming presence that he might as well have sat right in Bonnie’s damn lap. Every brush of Michael’s left elbow with his right had sent fissures of electricity throughout his whole body. 

He had eaten the rabbit stew without really tasting it, dedicating all his attention to the boy just barely pressing his thigh up against Bonnie’s own. 

Bonnie leaned down and picked up a stone, worn smooth from the lake lapping at it for hundreds of years. He tossed it high up in the sky, over and over again. 

If he knew any better, he’d say that him and Michael were boxers facing off. Circling each other, arms held up cautiously and waiting for the other to strike first. 

In the ring, Bonnie always struck first, but this was _not_ a boxing match, and making the first move in a situation like this would more than likely end up with a broken nose and flayed feelings. Again.

_ What the fuck do you’re think you’re doing, get the fuck away from me, what kind of f— _

Bonnie flicked the rock into the water, and it skipped three times before sinking into the darkness.

“You’re up early,” came Michael’s voice from behind him.

Bonnie’s hand twitched. “So are you.”

“I’m always up this early.”

_Liar._ Michael moved to stand beside him, close enough that Bonnie could feel the warmth of his wool coat through his own. 

Michael made a humming sound deep in his throat, and paused in a way that made it clear to Bonnie they weren’t going to just go back to their routine. 

Finally, Michael said, “You like me, don’t you.”

Bonnie tilted his head back until the only things in his vision were tree branches backlit by the grey sky. “I tolerate you because your mother told us to, as part of the deal.”

“What I said doesn’t concern whether you tolerate me or not.”

Anger swept through Bonnie like a shot of whiskey. “Well, I’m saying it fucking does concern toleration, and nothing more than fucking that.” 

He moved away from Michael, facing him and putting distance between their bodies until he was a hair’s breath from the water’s edge, pointing a finger at Michael and his ruffled hair and the boots he was wearing that used to be Bonnie’s. “So shut the fuck up about anything else or I’ll hit you so hard that your jaw pops fucking off and you can’t—”

“ _Bonnie Gold_ ,” Michael interrupted, moving towards Bonnie.

“And stop calling me by my full name, it’s fucking—it’s—stop fucking doing it,” Bonnie said, and he hated how raspy his voice sounded. “You can’t just go around and ask those kind of questions just because you’re a Shelby.”

“It wasn’t a question, it was a statement.”

It was a losing fight, was what it was. Bonnie could feel it. But he wasn’t even sure what he was fighting, whether it was Michael, or that statement, or how much Bonnie wished he could kiss Michael without any of the inevitable repercussions. 

Michael was luring him into a trap, probably, but Bonnie paused nevertheless. Because he was _tired_.

Time stretched out for a long time, even though it was probably barely thirty seconds. 

Finally, because he was _so fucking tired_ , Bonnie jerked his head forward and looked Michael directly in the eyes when he said: “What about it?”

Michael let his eyes drift lazily across the line of trees at the opposite edge of the lake. “If I were to tell you that I tolerated you, too, then you wouldn’t mind, then.” 

_He’s got a deadly right hook_ , Bonnie thought. “By tolerate, you mean like?”

“I do mean that, yes.”

“In what context?”

“You know what bloody context.”

If only he could calm the birds battering his stomach, Bonnie would feel a lot more confident. As it was, he was trying not to look as painfully nervous as he felt. Michael a bit more composed, as they stood there on the bank, letting the morning mist get them damp and chilled to the bone.

After a long moment, Michael snapped, “For God’s sake,” making Bonnie jump. He walked the few remaining steps to Bonnie, not all that fast because he still had a hole in his thigh, and the shore was rocky and uneven. Even so, Bonnie remained rooted to the spot, his breath coming in vapid gulps.

Bonnie wasn’t sure if it started because he leaned down, or because Michael grasped his neck and yanked him down, but either way, Michael’s lips ended up moving over Bonnie’s like the tide over the shore.

Bonnie exhaled sharply through his nose, screwing his eyes shut as he fisted the lapels of Michael’s coat. His mouth opened, and Michael didn’t back off. They met each other with teeth and tongues and shared panting.

His belly twisted around itself, nerves doubling and tripling despite the fact that this kiss was everything he’d ever wanted. He wanted to never open his eyes again because he had a suspicion that he'd find himself back in his _vardo_ , in bed, alone, if he did.

Against his lips, Michael murmured, “Useless welterweight.”


End file.
